Hands Held High
by CladInPink
Summary: "Sometimes she thinks to herself that all the fighting in the world cannot avenge the blood that has already been shed." Rest is costly during times of war, and for healers like Tsunade, the price is paid in dead bodies. Set during the Second Shinobi War.


**Hands held high**

_Knit. Knit. Knit._

The sound of bones knitting together is the only sound reaching her ears; all else is nothing but background noise, static buzzing in her ears. Hands move from wound to wound mechanically, moving through procedures she's learned by heart after years of studying. Occasionally a hand moves up to brush a stray hair out of her line of sight, leaving drops of blood clinging to the golden strand.

Her arms ache from the strain of the constant flow of chakra to her hands, and her head feels heavier than the Hokage Mountain, her chakra reserve making its emptying status known.

The stream of bodies is never-ending. Whenever she finishes healing one body (or declare it a lost cause), a new one is laid before her (not a person, no, she can't think of them as persons, or else every glance at a mangled body will chip away at her heart until there is nothing left). Sometimes a particularly mangled corpse will lie before her, and she'll swear to Kami that now she's seen the worst there is. But a couple of minutes (or is it hours?) pass, and then she finds herself replaying that same sentence in her mind. After a while she simply stops, resigning herself to the fact that what humans are capable of doing to one another is beyond her imagination.

There is blood on her hands, on her clothes, in her hair. It's everywhere, but mostly it's _on_ her, it's sticky presence does nothing to ease her discomfort. The smell of it is penetrating, and by now she's sure that she'll never be able to forget it; the smell of death and pain will forever haunt her with memories of war and its costs. She tries breathing through her mouth, but the taste is almost worse than the smell; the air is thick with the metallic tang of it, though her exhausted mind reasons that the taste is probably a figment of her imagination. Or is there blood on her lips? She doesn't know any longer, and even if she does, she doesn't have the energy to do anything about it.

She doesn't know whether she wants be out there, in the midst of battle, or in here, fighting to save what's left of her comrades. No, not comrades, she reminds herself; they're bodies and nothing more.

Either way she'll end up with blood on her hands. But the elders have condemned her to the job of patching up the injured in hopes of salvaging those still able to fight; all this, just for the sake of sending them back out in the line of fire. It's a never-ending cycle, and sometimes she thinks to herself that all the fighting in the world cannot avenge the blood that has already been shed.

Despite her skills as a medic, at least half of the bodies brought to her cease to breathe, some even before she gets started; that's how bad their wounds are. And that's only the ones that make it back to the makeshift tent they call a medic station.

The sheer thought of the numbers of lives lost press down on her, draining her strength at the same speed as the healing chakra flowing from her hands.

A bead of sweat runs down her brow, and she reaches up to swipe it away, the back of her hand leaving a trail of blood in its wake. She sees nothing but the body before her, and she absentmindedly notes that she has acquired a tunnel vision. Her head spins with fatigue, a sign that her chakra reserve will soon be running on empty; and that's never a good thing.

But she can't stop now. There are countless of bodies waiting for her to heal them, to take away the pain. No, she has to keep going. She has to-

She feels a warm hand on her shoulder, and she watches transfixed as another hand moves to cover her own, slowly moving hers away from the body-turned-corpse before her. The green healing chakra enveloping her hands falters before dying out like flames extinguished by water.

"Tsunade."

She turns her head, tunnel vision zeroing in on a familiar face framed by white, spiky hair that she'd recognize anytime, tunnel vision be damned. She squints her eyes at him, trying to see through the fog that seems to be clouding her brain. The buzz in her head almost drowns out his next words.

"-shouldn't be doing this in your state," he finishes, regarding her sternly with those dark, bottomless orbs of his.

"I'm needed here," she bows her head to avoid his gaze, her words nothing more than a mumble.

"I don't doubt that. But if you drop dead from chakra exhaustion you won't be of much use to anybody," he counters; his words are meant to be joking, but his voice is somber.

She doesn't offer him a reply, knowing full well the truth his words contain. Besides, she's much too tired to argue right now, least of all with _him_.

"Come, let's get you out of here," he tugs at her hand, and for once she complies.

She hasn't taken more than one step when her knees start to buckle, but his arm is around her in an instant, supporting her against his larger frame. Normally she'd punch him for such intimate contact, but she doesn't have any chakra left for one of her infamous punches. And for once, she senses no perverted intentions behind his touch.

Just then, a medic intercepts their path towards the exit.

"Tsunade-sama, there was an explosion by the Amegakure border, you-"

"Does it look like she's in a condition to deal with half-melted corpse?" Jiraiya cuts the medic off angrily, gesturing to her slumped frame at his side.

"N-n-no," the medic stammers, shying away from the white-haired man, no doubt intimidated both by his size and reputation; be it his reputation as a pervert or shinobi. "But the council said-"

"I don't give a rat's ass about what the council said," Jiraiya sneers, taking a menacing step forward.

Tsunade moves as if to follow the medic.

"Jiraiya, it's okay-"

"No, Tsunade, it is not. You're human, and you need rest just as much as the rest of us do," Jiraiya cuts her off, tightening his arm around her and effectively trapping her there. Then he redirects his attention to the medic before them. "Now move your ass out of my way, or I'll move it for you."

The medic hastily disappears, presumably rushing off to tell the council that their precious _hime_ has abandoned her duty, or better yet, been abducted by a white-haired giant. She gives a tired sigh. There'll be hell to pay once the council finds out.

When they finally exit the tent, she breathes in deeply, savoring the fresh night air. They are a not too far away from the village, as the medic station is placed close enough to be included in the patrolled perimeter. Despite this, thinking of how far they'll have to walk only serves to tire her more, and she is about to tell Jiraiya to just let her sleep right then and there when she feels her feet leave the ground. He scoops her up bridal-style (she cringes at the word when her mind feeds it to her), and a minute and a shunshin later they're standing in the streets of Konoha; she doesn't even have time to protest.

The shunshin has her head spinning even worse than before, and she's secretly glad that he doesn't put her back down again, as he starts to walk in the general direction of her apartment. Deciding to scold him for his dizzying stunt another time, she closes her eyes and lets her head rest against his chest, the thrum of his heart lulling her to into a half-sleep.

She's never been intimate with him like this before save for the occasional awkward hug (what else could they be, when he made his crush on her so widely known?), but oddly enough the contact didn't carry with it its usual feeling of awkwardness or poorly veiled attempts at getting intimate with her. This was an act of friendship, her sleep-fogged brain realized. This was one friend showing concern for the well-being of another, not a wooing attempt taken to a new level.

"When was the last time you had something to eat?" he asks, his chest reverberating pleasantly against her temple as he speaks.

"I... don't know," she answers, recalling nothing but mangled bodies and lifeless corpses; there's no room for food in-between those horrid pictures, lest she aims to retch up a year's worth of food.

He makes a disapproving sound, cursing the council with colorful words under his breath. She just closes her eyes, wanting nothing more than for sleep to claim her. Well, a full stomach and a warm bath would also be quite nice. But sleep is definitely at the top of her most-desired list at the moment.

Suddenly they're standing in front of the door to her apartment, and he's asking her for the key. Weird, she thinks, she doesn't even remember the walk up the stairs. Did she fall sleep? Maybe she's closer to chakra exhaustion than she thought.

"The key, Tsunade," he repeats, gently placing her feet back on the ground.

She fumbles with the button of her flak jacket's front pocket, and a small part of her brain thinks that it wouldn't be surprising if he decided to 'help' her open it. But he doesn't move, only waits beside her with a patience she hadn't known he possessed. When she finally finds it and hands it to him, he accepts it without a word, inserting it in the keyhole and unlocking the door. They step over the threshold and into her apartment without further ado.

If she had the strength, she'd have run straight to her bed, but as it is, she lets him seat her at the kitchen table while he goes to rummage through her fridge. It's a matter of seconds before her head is resting on top of her arms, eyes already sliding closed.

"All your food is expired save for this one can of tuna," his frustrated exclamation reaches her ears, and she shifts her head in her arms to look at him through half-lidded eyes.

"I haven't been home much lately," she murmurs, a weak attempt to defend the derelict state of her home.

"That I can see," he snorts, then grows serious again. "But you really need to eat something. Do you have any bread?"

She nods, lifting a hand to point at a cabinet without moving her head. The hand falls back down again soon after, as if it were boneless. Just like the bodies. Mauled, bloody bodies… she shudders, willing her mind to think thoughts of a more pleasant nature. Glittering rainbows, babies wrapped in pastel colors, falling stars...

A couple of minutes (or is it hours?) pass, and she's well on her way to crossing sleep's border when a plate is suddenly put in front of her, accompanied by heavy hand on her shoulder, effectively jostling her from her slumber.

"Wake up, princess, it's time for breakfast," he calls in a singsong voice, and she finds the strength to give him a weak, but playful punch to the shoulder. "If I knew you had enough strength left to punch me, I would've made you make your own damn sandwich."

Her lips tilt upward, but she doesn't make an effort to sit up. Food can wait. Sleep is so much more tempting at the moment...

"Tsunade, you're bordering on chakra exhaustion. You need to eat. Now," much to her annoyance, her dozing off is interrupted by his too-loud voice. "Sleeping on an empty stomach won't do you much good, and you know it better than me, miss medic."

She glances at him out of the corner of her eyes; he is watching her intently, and she realizes that she won't be getting any sleep before she's eaten his goddamn sandwich. She lets out an annoyed groan as she moves to sit (not fully upright, but close enough).

She takes her time, eating the sandwich one small bite at a time; partly because she wants to annoy him, partly because she's too fatigued to wolf it down (even if that's what she really wants to do). Idly she notes that she can still taste the coppery tang of blood in-between the bites of tuna and bread, and she is reminded that she is still, quite literally, soaked in blood.

When she finishes, she leans back against the wall and she lets her hands rest on the table in front of her, eyes staring at them dully. They're stained a deep crimson, the rich color a stark contrast to the few splotches of fair skin that have escaped the gore.

She is idly aware of his worried gaze, but the sight of her bloodstained hands are far too fascinating (in a sick, twisted way) to abandon in favor of assuring her teammate of her sanity.

There's a sound of a chair scraping and the tap-tap-tap of bare feet on wooden floorboards. There's the sound of bowls clanging and the sound of running water. Then there's silence, at least until he plumps down beside her again, this time with a bowl of steaming water.

"Take off your gloves and flak jacket," he instructs her seriously, ignoring the dubious look she gives him for his suspicious choice of words.

Slowly, she moves to do as she's told. The buttons on her flak jacket causes her some difficulty, but like outside the door, he doesn't attempt to take advantage of the situation. When she starts fumbling with her gloves, however, he deems it safe enough to reach over and pull them off.

He takes her hand and holds it over the bowl from which he retrieves a wash cloth. The wet cloth touches first her knuckles, and then the tips of her fingers, the warm water trickling down her hand slowly. She watches him, eyes struggling to stay open, as he goes about cleaning off the worst of the blood. He moves methodically from one area to the next, leaving pale skin in the wake of his ministrations.

The wet cloth touches her face, and she opens her eyes (when did she close them?) to see him gazing at her with a strange look in his eyes; not lustful, but not platonic either. She doesn't quite know the word needed to label it.

"You're beautiful," he breathes, and the words ghost over her skin, carrying with them an unfamiliar intimacy that makes her breath catch in her throat.

It is in that moment her body decides to finally succumb to the pressure of chakra exhaustion, shutting down completely. Her vision darkens, all thoughts of confusing feelings and soft-spoken compliments evaporating to make room for blissful nothingness.

She wakes to find herself tucked in neatly in her bed, rays of sunshine announcing the new day's arrival. She peeks under the covers, relieved to discover that she's still wearing her blouse and trousers despite their bloodied state. One evening of decent behavior doesn't quite make up for a century of lechery, after all.

A note on her bedside tells her to take it easy and to not worry about the 'old geezers' in the council; he'll take care of them.

Her lips curl upward in a smile as she tries to imagine how he intends to 'deal' with the council. Maybe bore them to death with tales of his heroism. Or bribe them with a special edition of his newest book.

Eventually, her grin is replaced by a fond smile.

He may be a real pervert at times, but he's still her friend; her best friend.

* * *

_AN: _I've had this lying around for a while now, but I only just added the last couple of paragraphs today. This was the very first pairing I fell in love with, but because of this I've always hesitated when it comes to actually writing a story about them, since I'd want to do them justice. Here is my first attempt; or at least my first, finished one.

I was originally going for a little more romance, but I imagine it'd take more than one act of kindness to shift the scale, so I decided to keep it a little more... platonic. Also, the story is named after Linkin Park's song of the same name (duh!) because of its anti-war message.

As always, reviews are much appreciated :)


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